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The Last Elf of Lanis
by
K. J. Hargan
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The Last Elf of Lanis
Copyright 2010 by K. J. Hargan
All right reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may
be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means
(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the
copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark
owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The
publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover illustration by Damian Hawes. Copyright Kurt J. Hargan. Used with permission.
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The author would like to thank Annette and Roy for their support and love, and Zack who enjoyed this work, as it was written chapter by chapter and read to him by his mother Koral, who I thank as sister, editor, and most ardent fan.
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The Last Elf of Lanis
Chapter One
Bittel
Iounelle Treelaughter Wendralorn Awaruaine knelt to check the signs in the dry autumn grass. Nearby, the bodies of five garonds lay dead.
Treelaughter was her elvish lifename. Wendralorn was her family name. And, Awaruaine was the name given by the priests at her birth, a secret name, only to be told to her betrothed on her first night of marriage. Now that name was irrelevant. There were no other elves to be her husband.
The garonds were part of a larger platoon she had been tracking for several weeks. They were headed westward from the Holmwy River. These five had doubled back. It didn’t matter why to the elf. She would have killed them in any case.
Iounelle plucked a handful of the meadow grass and wiped the garond blood from her long, silver, crescent shaped sword. It resembled the moon in its last phase. Along the inner edge ran old elvish runes in a dialect of elvish so ancient the words made little sense to her. She could pick out the words ‘glory’ and ‘key’, but the phrasing was too old to be readily understood.
The elf looked up at the cold, blue sky. The memory of the slaughter of the last elves in all of Wealdland constantly played before her eyes. She clutched her breast with the heartbreak. When the garonds, their age old friends, suddenly attacked, she had been knocked unconscious by her brother, and hidden in the trees near the walls of the ancient city of the elves, called Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam.
When she awoke, the last four elves were fighting against thousands of garonds. Her brother was in the group. From her hiding place, she saw his desperate eyes flash to her to flee. She felt the numbing shock of horror as the garonds, like angry black ants, overwhelmed her brother and the other elves. She often thought she should have died with them then, a year ago. But, she ran and hid in the trees, crying for days after.
Over the days since the attack, she quietly killed as many of the invading, vile garonds as she could, secretly ranging all across the Lanis peninsula, into the Madrun Hills, and across the Eastern Meadowland.
The elf rose. The trail led to a small, neglected village called Bittel.
The small stand of trees was cool, and the green and yellow leaves of the massive elms swayed and danced with the sweet breezes of the last days of autumn. The Archer from Kipleth drew back on his long, yew bow. The arrow he had nocked had a black metal, strangely barbed head.
The Archer swung his bow around to a group of people on the ground. From his vantage point in the elm, the Archer had an unobstructed target range of the whole, open meadow and the trail that ran along the edge of the tree line.
A permanent sorrow was etched on the Archer’s face, reflected in his dark brown eyes.
There was no cover from this point. Anyone on the ground would have been helpless before him. He had only to point and release.
On the ground, three garonds had three human families in shackles. The garonds were a squat, dark, muscular and vicious race, sporting long, dark, red hair. They had wide mouths with sharp teeth, small upturned noses and ape like faces.
All three of the garond soldiers had thick leather armor with copper plates on shoulders, thighs, and chest. None of these precautions would protect the soldiers from the Archer.
The Archer sighted the foremost garond and pulled his arrow tight to his right cheek. The image of his slaughtered wife and children was always foremost in his mind, but his wife’s face was becoming distant, a memory harder to recall. His fingers trembled.
Silent, as a leaf falling, a shape dropped to the branch just in the Archer’s line of sight. A small, hooded figure dressed in forest green crouched on the outstretched arm of an elm.
The Archer watched as the hooded figure drew a crescent shaped, silver sword. The Archer instantly knew the shape crouching on the branch before him was an elf. His hand wavered for an imperceptible instant.
The elf tensed, ready to leap down to the garonds below. In a moment, the elf would be fighting for its life, and it would be a close match. Garonds were quick and well organized, strong and merciless. The Archer had never seen an elf fight, but he made up his mind.
The Archer checked his target and released the arrow. It flew silent and true, a sharp, feathered bolt, and pinned the cloak of the elf to the branch on which it crouched.
The elf whirled around to pierce the Archer with sea green eyes. The elf was a young woman, but a bonfire of hatred blazed in her stare. The Archer locked eyes with the elf, and lifted a single finger to his lips to be silent.
The elf instantly knew the Archer could have killed her then and there, and reluctantly nodded with understanding.
The Archer nocked another of his unique black arrows.
On the ground, a blonde, human boy had fallen to the dry, autumn grass. One of the garonds snarled loud and dangerous. It lifted its blackened, oak club for the death stroke.
As in a dream, a polished arrow sprouted from the neck of the garond. Dark blood squirted from the wound. The other two garonds roared in anger.
The elf watched in astonishment as the Archer renocked, and fired twice more in a perfect blur. It seemed as if the arrows sprang from the other two garonds like evil, fletched flowers grown mad in some deadly spring.
The middle garond clutched the arrow imbedded in his right eye. The third garond could only bring his hands up to the arrow protruding from his opened mouth before it crumpled to its death.
All three garonds fell to the ground in pools of inky blood as the humans clutched each other in happy astonishment.
The elf turned to fix the Archer with a look of satisfied blood lust. Then, she ripped the arrow from her tunic, and leapt from the tree. The elf disappeared into the woods with the speed of a startled deer.
The Archer paused for any other movement in the woods, and then slowly climbed from the elm tree. Then, he walked carefully to the tree that the elf had fled. There was no sign of his black arrow, or the elf.
Carefully, the Archer walked through the edge of the woods to where the humans were freeing themselves of the shackles of the garonds.
A tall, blonde man with dark brown eyes turned to the Archer, and his face broke into a broad smile. “Like the sun breaking through the clouds, our savior!” He exclaimed.
The Archer ignored him an
d strode to the first garond, and pulled the black arrow from its neck.
“I am Kellabald, these are the people of Bittel,” the blonde man quietly said.
The Archer briefly took in Kellabald, his dark haired wife, and their blonde son, the boy who was nearly killed. There was also an elderly couple, and a red haired man, with a woman and their girl. The red haired man seemed vaguely familiar.
The Archer stepped to the second garond and with effort, pulled at the thick, barbed arrow buried in its eye socket.
The two human children now clutched their mothers and whimpered in happy sobs. The Archer acknowledged their relief. For an instant, the pain of a bereaved parent played across his face. Then, the black cloud, which perpetually shadowed the Archer’s face, covered his countenance again.
Kellabald stepped up to the second garond and held its head to help the Archer extract the arrow.
“They are nasty things, these garonds, like rabid animals. You made short work of them, though,” Kellabald humbly said.
As the arrow came free, the Archer examined Kellabald for a moment. “You had best get your clan to safety fast. The mounted patrols will be here soon.”
“Mounted...?’ Kellabald stared at the Archer.
“They ride on the backs of horses,” the Archer plainly said.
Kellabald stopped as if the Archer had told a joke, and then realized the seriousness of the situation. “They ride on the backs...”
“... Of horses. They are relentless and unmerciful,” the Archer said as he scanned the trees.
Kellabald seemed to understand, and an air of gratefulness settled on him. “You have our undying thanks, friend. But where is your elf companion? We should thank her, too.”
The Archer stopped before the third garond. “You saw her?”
Kellabald shifted nervously. “Was she... Did I not...?” his voice broke in embarrassment.
“She has my arrow,” was all the Archer said. Then, he pulled the arrow from the third garond’s mouth with a sucking, popping sound.
“There’s a village, Rion Ta, across the Eastern Meadowland, at the edge of the Weald. We would be honored if you would escort us,” Kellabald asked, hope quietly shining in his averted brown eyes.
“The women and children should know that we must travel quickly,” was all the Archer said. With that, he strode away through the brown, dry grass.
Kellabald gathered his clan as they scuttled after the determined strides of the Archer from Kipleth.
From the edge of the woods, from the unfolding green, as if emerging from nature itself, Iounelle, the elf, stood and looked after the fleeing humans. The elf paused to examine the destruction of the garonds, crumpled black shapes of evil, given their due by the dark eyed, dark haired Archer. The human stirred a strange feeling in her breast. In her hand, she turned the unusual, black arrow that had pinned her cloak to the tree. Then, with the hint of a smile, the elf quietly followed the trekking humans through the crisp, autumn grass.
Chapter Two
The Stauer
Arnwylf tried to ignore the burning in his legs, and would not cry. His father, Kellabald walked with his mother, Wynnfrith, just behind the Archer. His mother’s long black hair swayed in the gentle breeze. She looked back at Arnwylf with sea green eyes.
Arnwylf had his father’s blonde hair, but while Arnwylf’s hair was long and gentle, his father’s was a ragged mop. Arnwylf had his mother’s green eyes.
The dry, tall grass sometimes cut at his face. He was lean and tall for almost fifteen summers. He was frightened and starving, but he would not cry.
The garonds had been terrifying, worse than any nightmare. He knew he was going to die. They smelled like spoiled meat. Their faces were always twisted with rage. But, Arnwylf sensed there was something not right about the garonds, as if they were compelled by something even worse.
Arnwylf stumbled, and old Yulenth caught him. They quickly continued stalking through the tall grass of the Eastern Meadowland. Yulenth had short, messy white hair, a white beard, and light grey eyes. Alrhett marched beside her husband, Yulenth. She was Arnwylf’s grandmother, her long white hair platted into a single braid. She had hazel eyes, which twinkled with secret wisdom. Yulenth and Alrhett were like second parents to Arnwylf, and he felt safe with them following just behind.
Arnwylf thought back to the moment when the Archer had emerged from the woods. His dark face made Arnwylf worry that he was another garond. But then his quiet calm put everyone instantly at ease.
Arnwylf caught the glimpse of a shadow moving quickly through the grass. He almost cried out, fearing an animal. He knew lions stalked these grassy meadows. But, the shadow was so fleeting, he wondered if he had imagined it.
The red haired family followed behind Yulenth and Alrhett. The father, Haergill, was quiet like the Archer, and his fire red beard was braided into two braids. Haergill’s wife, Halldora, and their daughter Frea, were kind but quiet, as if they were holding back a tremendous sorrow. Their curling ginger hair was softly caressed by the light breezes of the meadow.
They had come from the Northern Kingdom of Man, where the garonds had driven every single human from the land. Kellabald had gladly welcomed them into their village. And, Arnwylf was glad to have someone his own age in the village, even if she was a girl.
Arnwylf flinched as he caught a strong musk smell. The Archer stopped the group and gestured for the band of humans to crouch down. As he stopped to hide, Arnwylf knew the pungent smell was a stauer, a massively large deer. The stauer was so large that a human, bowing his head, could walk underneath a mature male.
Stauers were dangerous. Their impressive antlers could kill several men in one slashing arc of its head. A herd of stauer was to be avoided at all costs. But, a single animal could be hunted and killed. The humans were desperately hungry. The garonds had starved the humans while they searched their village for days. They were looking for something, but no one knew what they sought. And, they could not tell, as no human understood the garond tongue.
Arnwylf could see his father arguing with the Archer in urgent whispers.
They had no weapons for hunting. Haergill had picked up one of the hated garond’s clubs. And except for the Archer’s arrows, the humans were empty handed.
Kellabald and the Archer reached an agreement. The Archer and Kellabald quietly retreated along the way they had come. After a brief discussion with Haergill, the group retreated back to a dead tree the humans had passed in the meadow.
Arnwylf knew what would come next, and set to breaking off the largest branch he could. All the others, men and women broke off large branches from the dead tree. Where the branches broke away, sharp, wooden spear points formed.
Frea had trouble with the branch she had chosen, and Haergill, her father, and Yulenth stopped to help her. Her branch split with an amazingly loud crack. The group froze in silence. The stauer might have heard them and bolted. Any number of humans would be no match for a charging stauer. The humans paused, listening intently.
Arnwylf saw the shadow again darting through the grass and swiveled to face it. The humans turned in the direction Arnwylf stared, but saw nothing. The Archer moved quietly to Arnwylf’s side.
“You saw her?” His dark eyes bore into Arnwylf. Arnwylf could only nod his head in assent. The Archer terrified him.
“Stay near me,” the Archer added. Arnwylf closely followed the Archer as the humans moved back along the path they had followed through the meadow. Kellabald and Wynnfrith shared a worried look.
Back to where they had stopped, the smell of the stauer was overpowering, musky, pungent, like the smell of the village when the rains came and everything was wet, like the smell of his younger brother when he was first born. Arnwylf stopped for a moment to remember his brother who had died so young of the pox.
The Archer motioned for the group to gather close.
“You,” he pointed to Haergill, “go that way. Me and you,” he indicated Kellabald, “we’ll go
this way.”
“What do I do?” Arnwylf surprised himself with the question.
“You stay and protect the women,” the Archer dismissively said.
“Thank you for saving us, sir,” Wynnfrith spoke up. “But we have been hunting stauer for generations.” With that, the whole group, men and women, moved out to encircle the stauer.
The Archer smiled, and then caught Arnwylf. “If you see that shadow again,. shout out, regardless of the hunt.” Arnwylf regarded the Archer, trying to be as strong and as terrifying as he could. He sensed the Archer’s amusement as the clan split up for the hunt.
The humans moved out into a quiet circle. To one side Wynnfrith led Haergill, followed by Halldora, then Yulenth. On the other side, Kellabald led Alrhett, then Arnwylf, and Frea. The Archer caught Arnwylf and then the circle wasn’t a perfect alteration of man and woman.
“If you see that elf...” the Archer said to Arnwylf. He and the Archer held back from the circle. The Archer nocked a flint tipped arrow. Arnwylf noted the excellent shape of the flint stone bound to the arrow shaft. The feathers of the arrow appeared to be from a sparrow, delicate and perfect. Arnwylf wondered where the large, black arrows were, and why hadn’t the Archer nocked one of those.
Arnwylf could smell the pungent aroma of the stauer again. The sharp scent was strong. He lifted his head slightly and saw through the thick, yellow and green grass, the huge antler rack of the stauer bobbing as the beast cropped the grass. He could hear the ripping and munching of the massive beast as it swung its massive head back and forth, tearing at the meadow’s grasses.
The humans had formed a perfect circle around the stauer, not trying to be too quiet. The trick was keeping it from being startled and running. Its tremendous weight, easily equal to ten men, once set in motion, would be unstoppable. The alteration of man and woman would mean that the men could move in on the animal as the women tried to contain it.
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